Page 45

He pushed the button, and a disembodied male voice asked him what his business was.

“This is Westin Clark. I was invited to dinner by Rena Mollohan.”

“Drive up to the main house.”

The gates slowly began to slide apart, allowing space for his truck to slip through. Westin eased his foot onto the accelerator, his heart in his throat as he drove the quarter-mile or so up into the circle drive. He knew every inch of this house. He knew the main staircase was decorated with carvings that depicted the family crest; he knew the chandelier in the dining room was purchased in France in the late 1870s. He knew there was a dumb waiter in the butler’s pantry, and a hidden door behind the laundry room that used to go down into the root cellar. He knew more about this house than he knew about the main house back at Golden Sphinx—and he’d never set foot in it a day in his life.

He was about to. He was about to step through those stately doors for the first time.

Almost on cue, Rena came out the front door dressed in a pretty flowered dress, her hair done up in one of those neat, wide buns. He lifted a hand to her, glancing at himself in the mirror before he got out of the truck. He straightened the thin bolo tie Clint had allowed him to borrow, tugging at the sleeves of his white shirt, making sure everything was straight and still wrinkle-free. He’d ironed his own shirt for the first time in nearly a decade, and it was stiff with the liquid starch he’d used too liberally. But it looked good. He could see that when he stepped out and checked again in the side mirror. He looked like a cowboy ready to head off to church, which was the best compliment he could think of.

He took off his hat as he approached the front steps, brushing his fingers through his carefully washed and brushed hair, aware that he probably now had hat lines. He shouldn’t have put the hat on, but some habits couldn’t be broken quite that easily.

Rena practically jumped into his arms as he approached her. He turned his head when she reached up to plant a kiss, accepting it chastely on his cheek rather than her originally intended destination. Her slight body was warm, but she was already shivering in the cold air.

“We should go inside.”

“Yes, yes, we should.” She backed away, blushing as she smiled at him, her hand slipping into his. “Come on. Momma was about to ring the dinner bell.”

Westin followed her into the house, not disappointed by the gorgeous marble floors that he knew had been built with marble shipped over specially from Italy. The walls were a darker color than he’d expected, but he realized he should have expected they would have been painted a few times over the years. Rena helped him out of his coat and hung it in the closet, smiling again as she gestured for him to follow her into the sitting room.

It was a massive room, decorated in furniture that was both fashionable and functional. Dominic Mollohan was sitting in a wide, straight-backed chair, an iPad on his knee. Mrs. Mollohan was on the couch, a glass of wine clutched between both her hands. She smiled as she watched them come into the room, her eyes moving over the pleasure in her daughter’s eyes before moving to Westin. He recognized Rena in her features—the same wide-set eyes, the same perky little nose. And that smile. It was obvious where Rena got her good looks.

“Momma. Daddy. This is Westin Clark, my friend I was telling you about.”

Mrs. Mollohan was the first to stand, her glass left on a low table as she approached, offering a quick hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Clark.”

“You, too, Mrs. Mollohan. Rena speaks very highly of you.”

The older woman winked at her daughter. “That’s what I taught her to do.”

But it was Dominic Mollohan who drew Westin’s attention. He was slow to stand, seemingly reluctant to greet his daughter and her latest conquest. When he finally turned his attention to the younger man, Westin found himself studying his features, looking for something familiar. He found it, or thought he did, just as he thought he’d seen it in photographs that were decades old. He was just as he’d expected to find him—tall and dark and arrogant. The kind of man who thought he ruled the world, because he did. At least, his little part of it.

“Daddy, come say hi,” Rena pouted.

“Hello,” Mollohan said, lowering his head slightly as though in a bow that felt more condescending than welcoming.

“Daddy!” Rena shot a look at her mother who gently grasped her husband’s arm and drew him closer to the small party. “Be polite, Dom,” the older woman said.

“You work at the Golden Sphinx, don’t you?”

Westin lowered his head just slightly. “I do. Have for three years.”

“You knew Asa Howard, then.”

“I did.”

“Man was an ass. Stole three hundred acres of the Rocking D and refused to give them back.” Mollohan shook his head before skirting Westin and his own daughter in favor of the bar. He poured himself something dark, a brandy maybe, and swallowed a generous slug before topping it off. “Isn’t dinner ready, Carolyn?”

Mrs. Mollohan blushed with what Westin could only imagine was embarrassment, but nodded. “It is. We should go in.”

“Sorry,” Rena whispered near Westin’s ear. “He can be difficult sometimes.”

“It’s all right. He’ll warm to me. Everyone does eventually.”

“I’m sure he will,” Rena said with a bright smile. She tucked her arm into Westin’s and paraded into the dining room like it was the first time she’d been escorted by a gentleman. Westin wondered if it was. If that didn’t make a man feel like an ass, he wasn’t sure what would.

The four of them settled on opposite sides of the table, forced to stare at one another as a member of the kitchen staff delivered their salads on beautiful white china plates. Westin glanced at Rena, watching which fork she picked up, not ready to look completely like an uncouth fool.